


Tantalizing

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-10
Updated: 2010-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You need only ask, you know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tantalizing

Blackwood is done glancing up at every creak, every noise, at seeing the hands on the clock move not a fraction. Coward should have been here ages ago; it's not like him to not show, to not even send word if he is delayed. He isn't the type to just forget, especially after their last conversation. With every maddeningly slow tick, Blackwood becomes more certain; something had happened. Something is wrong.

He strides down the corridors, headed for Coward's rooms before he has made a conscious decision; but it only made sense to at least check. If something has happened – if there is something he can do – he knocks at the paneled wood of Coward's rooms, and is unpleasantly surprised when the door moved under his hand. He hesitates. To enter, uninvited, is such a breach of propriety; but he is more than curious now. He's downright worried. He pushes the door open, but doesn't enter, calling instead. "Coward?"

There is no reply, but the lights are on. Blackwood steps in. _What are you doing?_ Closes the door behind him. "Coward?" he calls again, and still, there is nothing but the sound of a slow fire in the hearth. He scans the room; nothing seems wrong, nothing to show where Coward might have gone, and he really should leave now, because Coward obviously isn't here and he shouldn't be here himself.

There is another door across the length of the room, slightly ajar, the edges spilling light. He'll check that room, and then he'll go.

He pushes open the door, and _oh_, there is Coward. In a bath tub. Naked.

Blackwood steps back, sharply. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to barge in, I is just–" but Coward hasn't reacted at all. He stops his babbling and looks closer; and he really shouldn't look closer, because there's too much lovely skin laid out before him. Coward's head is tipped back, tilted against the lip of the tub, and his eyes are closed; he must have fallen asleep. One long, bare arm dangles over the edge of the tub, a book face down beneath it, pages crumpling; he should pick it up. Really, Coward would hate to see a book like that, and it might get wet…

Unfortunately, stooping to pick up the book brings Blackwood disturbingly close to Coward. Coward's face is peaceful, relaxed, his lips parted slightly, hair clinging in wet curls to his forehead, and Blackwood can see the fine hairs on his arms from here, the long line of his throat, the smooth curve of his chest … he blinks hastily and turns his eyes to the wall. He should go. He should go, he shouldn't have come at all; there is nothing wrong here, nothing to blame but exhaustion. He should go; but first, maybe he should wake Coward. After all, he'd hate for him to drown.

Yes; he should wake him, and then go.

"Coward," he says, and his tongue feels oddly heavy, laying one hand on Coward shoulder, bare, cool to the touch. "Wake up."

Coward rouses at the touch, shifting slightly, sending small wavelets lapping at the edge of the tub, and blinks at Blackwood, his eyes cloudy, hazed with sleep. He focuses slowly, baffled. "Henry?" and his eyes go wide as his sits upright, water threatening to flood over the edges. "Blackwood? What are you – ah, dammit, what time is it?" He runs a hand through his still damp hair, and now it sticks up in every direction as he waits, wide eyed, for Blackwood' response.

He can't help the slightest smile at the sight before him. "Late," Blackwood says, and Coward sighs. "I'd wondered if something happened."

"Oh, damn, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just, well, I suppose you can see," and he waves a hand at himself. "Bollocks."

"I'll leave you be, then; we can talk some other time."

"What?" Coward turns those eyes at him, wide and impossibly blue. "No! Just give me a second, let me get myself together here and we can still talk tonight." He shakes his head, as though trying to clear the last remnants of sleep, and gestures at a stand just out of reach. "Hand me that, would you?"

Blackwood turns to pick up the towel, amused at Coward's tone; when he turns back Coward has stood up, is using one hand to balance himself as he steps out of the tub, and Blackwood jerks his eyes away. He can't rid himself of the images in his mind though, and _oh, lord_, he can feel his face heating, knows he's blushing outrageously.

"Thanks," Coward says, and takes the towel from his unresisting hands. Blackwood is trying desperately to look anywhere but at him, eyes darting around the room, and _please_, don't have let Coward noticed anything amiss. Coward pads past him, and no, Blackwood's eyes are not following him, are not feasting on that unmarred expanse of pale back, are not following with breathless anticipation the water dripping from dark hair, rolling down the curve of his back, down till they meet white towel…

Coward's said something, but he hasn't a clue what it is. "What?" he asks, intelligently, and then, "I mean, yes, of course," and that seems to be the right response because Coward smiles and walks into the other room, towel perilously low on his hips, and _good lord_, does the man not realize how he is flaunting himself?

Whether or not Coward is aware of it, Blackwood tells himself, now is not the time to discover that his preferences might not be as settled as he thought. For all he knows, Coward is unaware of his manner; his casual dishabille may be nothing more than a holdover from the particular atmosphere of some dorm situations. He is so young.

Coward snags a dressing gown that's draped over a nearby chair, and Blackwood sighs with relief to see all that delectable skin disappear. Relief, and a little disappointment.

Somehow, Blackwood makes it through their discussion; his answers make sense, his comments are relevant, and nothing he says is utterly outrageous, but ask him to tell you what they talked about, or what plans they made, or what time it is, and he couldn't tell you. Every thing he has is concentrated on the wet curl of Coward's hair, on the barely suppressed humor lurking in the corners of his mouth, the brilliant mind behind those shocking eyes, the glow of skin firelight turns translucent amber. He is caught by the way Coward's hands move as he talks, made speechless by his wit, and every time the dressing gown gapes open at the neck, Blackwood finds himself wanting, want like he's never indulged in before, want that any proper English gentlemen would abhor. True, there is hardly anything proper at Blackwood, but he still feels disturbed that this, this gorgeous young man before him, this is what he wants, more than any painted whore, and willing woman, any taste of magic and power.

The clock strikes, a single ringing gong, and they both start at the sound. When on earth did it get to be so late? "I should be going," he tells Coward, and it's true; only he should have left long ago.

"Mm," Coward agrees, and Blackwood is already rising before he speaks his next words. "Or you could stay."

Blackwood freezes, half a step away, and Coward continues to his back, low, quiet. "You need only ask, you know."

He can't possible be suggesting, be offering, how could he have even noticed … Blackwood turns back, ready to ask, to escape, and Coward is standing before him, far too close.

"Haven't you seen something you want?" he whispers, eyes eager and – possibly – slightly worried, and Blackwood's sight is full of things he wants; he breathes his answer out like a prayer.

"_Yes_."

Coward smiles then, slow and lazily and predatory, leaning in, and Blackwood' mind returns from whatever madness it had been in. "Wait, what – I mean, I didn't – I'm not, I- it's just…" Coward stills his lips with one finger, regarding him carefully, then replaces his finger with his lips and Blackwood's never, never felt anything quite like this, never imagined, never wanted another man before, but he does now, wants and needs and wonders if anything will ever taste as good.

Coward's lips are firm, and he kisses like he knows what he's doing, like he's claiming Blackwood, careful and unhurried and warm. Blackwood gasps against his mouth, and he doesn't mean too, but the kiss deepens into something more, something much hotter and hungrier, something almost frightening. He breaks away, panting and wide eyed, his face burning. "Wait," he gasps, and Coward is watching him, his lips reddened, his eyes dark and gleaming, watching him but not waiting. He presses forward again, lips fitting against the corner of Blackwood' mouth, teasing the line of his jaw, curling his body into Blackwood's, and the contact makes Blackwood groan, his hands falling to rest on hips that haven't the fleshy curve of a woman's, but are no less appealing for it.

"Wait," he says again, and when did his voice get so breathless? Coward stills, but doesn't move, his face still buried in Blackwood' neck, the full length of him flush against Blackwood. He doesn't know how to word it, how to explain. "I've never," he whispers, and that's as far as can say.

Coward's head comes up, and he stares at Blackwood with raised eyebrows. "What, never?"

He shakes his head, "With a man…" and he's blushing like some virgin maid, just waiting for Coward to laugh, and he won't be able to stand it if he does, he'll leave if he does.

Coward doesn't laugh. "Well," he breathes, his own face flushing. "That's … rather alluring. That I'll be your first," and Coward's eyes flutter shut for a moment before he continues, his lips brushing Blackwood's, "is extremely appealing." He kisses Blackwood again, leisurely, learning the shape of his mouth, the slide of his tongue, numbering his teeth and leaving indentations on his swollen lips, drawing Blackwood to explore his mouth in return.

Blackwood accepts the invitation, kisses Coward like … there's nothing he can compare it to, but it's heated and sharp and wet enough that Coward's stuttering breaths cool his lips on every exhale. Coward tilts his head back, only the faintest shine showing under his heavy lids, flushed, tempting. The movement exposes the fluttering pulse just under his jaw, and that's tempting too. Blackwood thinks about touching it, about licking it, leaving a trail of moisture to make Coward shudder, but Coward pushes him backward before he can implement his plan. He takes a step back, another, Coward pushing at him still, still so indecently close, and then the back of his knees hit something, buckle; he lunges forward, trying to restore his balance, and Coward pressed into him, sends him falling back. He hits the back and seat of the settee with enough force to drive his already short breath entirely out of him, and Coward's kneeling over his lap, legs spread obscenely far apart, hands on Blackwood's shoulders, bending his head down to teasingly catch Blackwood's upper lip between his teeth.

Blackwood gives his mouth up to Coward, gives what remains of his attention to the knot at Coward's waist; lets his hands do as they've wished all night and untie Coward's robe, slide the fabric off Coward's shoulders, fall caught around his elbows. Coward's skin is almost luminous in the shadows of the robe, tantalizing; he runs his hands flat along Coward's sides, over the hardened pink nipples, the dark dusting of hair along his abdomen, stroking him, caressing, caught wholly in the feel of Coward's skin as much as Coward seems to be enraptured with his hands, for he moans and shifts into them with an utterly wanton abandon.

He brushes his thumbs across the sharp bones of Coward's hips, just shy of too thin, and Coward twists delightfully, his head falling back, throat tensing with a held back moan, and Blackwood eagerly allows himself that neck, that spot he'd wanted a moment ago. Coward reacts just as he'd hoped, shudders beautifully, and Blackwood's rather pleased with how well this is going. Coward gasps as Blackwood mouths the skin below his ear, gasp and breathes out a barely intelligible "Oh god, stop, stop."

Blackwood stills, his mouth still pressed to skin. "What?" he whispers against it. Coward's head falls forward, his eyes glazed, panting shallowly.

"No!" he says. "I just meant, if you don't stop, I'll just – we need a bed. Or, I don't know, we don't, but it would be easier if we want to–" He breaks off, darts forward and presses a brief kiss to Blackwood's lips, that still turns heated in seconds. "Ah," Coward breathes, "I don't – I want you to come inside me."

Blackwood jerks, startled, incredibly aroused. "You want – I'd thought that _you'd_-"

"Oh! Well, if you'd rather…" Coward smirks. "But I'd thought that for your first time it might be – easier." He lowers his eyes, hooks his fingers in the few still fastened buttons of Blackwood' shirt. "And I _want_ you to fuck me."

"Yes," Blackwood manages. "Yes. Oh, _yes_."

Coward's mouth is so inviting, so tempting, especially when he smiles like _that_, all hungry and swollen and just made for kissing; but he leans back, wraps his fingers around Blackwood's wrists and keeps his hands pressed to Coward's sides as he stands. "Bedroom," he whispers, and while Blackwood nods in agreement, he can't help sliding his hands around to rest at the small of Coward's back, pulling him in and kissing that mouth.

It takes them _forever_ to get the few paces down the hall to the bedroom, because every step is punctuated with another piece of Blackwood's attire dropping to the floor, each one making them suddenly aware of that patch of skin – there, where collarbone rises to shoulder; there, where vertebrae meet skull; there, where there's the sweet bloom of red shading to purple from slightly too long nails – all those must be explored, and it's terribly distracting.

But not distracting enough that they forget their goal.

Blackwood winds up on the bed, though he couldn't say how, with Coward kneeling over him, casting shadows on his skin as he bites at one of Blackwood's nipples. Blackwood makes a startled, broken noise, shudders under the feel of Coward's grin. Somewhere along the way, no doubt a damning trail leading to this bed, he's managed to loose every piece of fabric that might come between them. He reaches for Coward, not even sure what he plans to do, but Coward rolls away, flings out an arm and fumbles for something half covered in darkness.

It's a jar, of something clear and fluid, and Coward uncaps it with trembling fingers. Takes Blackwood's hand in his, and pours it out in the cup of Blackwood's palm, slick and cool and shining dimly on his fingers. Coward lies back, decadent on the pale sheets and pulls one leg up, lets his knee fall outward, exposing the alluring skin of his inner thigh, Blackwood' eyes sliding up to the faint line of shadow where leg meets pelvis, lingering on the darkened pulse of his cock. Coward pulls his hand down, places his fingers against the tightly puckered hole and presses, his finger atop Henry's, presses and arches his back and moans, his eyes going blank and mindless as both their fingers enter him.

Blackwood is panting, harshly, caught up in the sight of Coward, the feel of his ass tightening around his fingers as he slides them in and out, as slowly as he can make himself, teasingly – except he's not teasing, he's merely hoping to last a little longer, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. Coward is exquisite as he moves on Blackwood's fingers, so many little desperate movements strung together to make something sensuous and needy, his hands curling in the bedclothes, toes pressing against Blackwood' knees as he draws his legs up, further, the defined muscles of his stomach quivering as he whines under his breath.

"For all the saints in heaven, will you _fuck_ me already?"

It's as much an order as a lament, and Blackwood is quick to obey, withdrawing his fingers and sliding his slickened palm over his cock. He presses his hands against the underside of Coward's thighs; "More," rasps Coward, and he pushes them, further, further with every gasp from Coward, until they are nearly touching Coward's chest. "Please," Coward moans, fractured, stuttering, and Blackwood sets the tip of his cock to Coward's arse, rocks forward, so slow, so unsure, but wanting so badly …

Coward makes a sound, a high pitched end to his breath that doesn't sound like any other noise he's made so far, his mouth gaping open as he breathes shallowly, and Blackwood's sure he's done something wrong. "Did I do someth-" he starts, already drawing back, and Coward narrows his eyes and hooks his heels into the small of Blackwood' back and hisses, "Damn right you did; now do it again. _Now_."

"Oh," Blackwood breathes, and "_Oh_," and thrusts forward, and _god_, Coward's so tight around him, so gorgeous, so perfect, and he'd never known how _good_ this could be and he's biting his lip in a futile attempt to stifle his cries, to try and stay sane and just one bit in control for even one second longer, and

"_Henry_," Coward whimpers, breathes out like an invocation. "Oh, god, Henry, I- you don't know how _long_-" and Blackwood leans down and kisses the words out of his mouth, swallows all those wonderful sounds he's making. He should spare a hand for Coward's cock, caught between their bellies, rubbed teasingly but not enough with every thrust, but he can't, he's hanging on to the sheets for dear life, and if he lets go … He bites at the corner of Coward's mouth, whispers into it "You're _beautiful_," and Coward shudders, his head falling back as his whole body tenses, drawing up into an arc that seems as though it might break his spine, forcing out a harsh, shattered cry as he comes, as his hands tighten impossibly hard on Blackwood's arms, nails biting into skin and muscle, as his legs curl around Blackwood's waist, every part of him tense and shaking and sweat sheened, and it's that, and the way his eyes flutter shut as they roll back, the way his mouth falls open, the way he snaps, breaks apart so beautifully, that does Blackwood in.

When he can do anything more than twitch and sob out harsh breaths against Coward's collarbones, he thinks briefly that he should move, because Coward is such a slender thing under him. He shifts, starts to roll; "Don't you _dare_," Coward whispers, and tightens legs and arms around him.

He accedes, reveals in the slightly sticky feel of skin against his with thoughts that are fragmented and blurred with exhaustion. Mumbles incoherent words of praise and worship and – maybe, maybe – love into Coward's skin, and stays.

Morning can deal with itself.


End file.
